Coffeehouse

“Do you remember when we first met?” She swirled her finger in her whipped cream. “It was summer. I didn’t like coffee, yet.”

“I remember. You were wearing a mini-skirt and a white tank top. Your hair was streaked. Sun-kissed. Like your skin.”

She hunched forward, elbows on the table and sipped her latte. “I’d never dated anyone as tall or as handsome as you.”

He smiled. “No chocolate sprinkles?”

She shook her head. “I quit adding them months ago.”

“Ahh.”

She looked healthy. Trimmer. Still sexy. “Do you remember when we first made love?”

“Hmm. In the backseat of your Ford Mustang?” she said.

“No. That was just sex. We were too rushed. Afraid of being caught.” He looked beyond her, beyond the couple at the next table, and surprised her. “You never came.”

“I didn’t know you knew.”

“Maybe I didn’t then.” He saw the crinkle in her nose when she smiled. “The real first time was in our bed, the night we moved in together.”

She hadn’t forgotten. Liberated sex. Naked and unhurried. Time to explore and learn and fuck. His skin on fire. Her cunt alive. The sheets tangled around them. It went on until exhaustion. Until the bed was in tatters and their love was sated.

The couple beside them got up to leave.

She glanced at her watch. “I have to go,” she said.

He watched her gather her purse, her glasses, her keys.

“Do your really have to leave?” he asked.

She paused, recalling their bed. Sleigh style, overstuffed with pillows. And later, violated by another.